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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 1K Bedtime Flash Contest
Honorable Mention

Cherry Air

Fingers, the pink of tongue and lips and head. Haunted, tempted, sexually demonized and wet as I sit and watch him—three rows ahead, aisle seat. So pilot-out-of-uniform cozy, cuddled up with his paper and pressed slacks and cream-and-sugar coffee. He doesn’t glance up from his newsprint as I cross and re-cross my long legs.

I struggle against a strong sense of déjà vu as flight attendants buzz through the cramped aisles. A dream, maybe. Trying to contain this warm ache, this gentle throb between my thighs, my lips, as I twist the end of a pen in my mouth, so stalkerish sweet and slutty.

All the suits and upper-ups are stuffed into their tiny seats. A pink-and-tan troupe of girls flits about a breast-feeding mother and grey, smiling vacationers with their fanny-packs and false teeth. Each fits so perfectly into this little scenario. Claustrophobes and walking, talking personifications of Normal. They must be suffocating in this heat.

But I can breathe. I can sigh and smell the light perfume of the girl next to me. Soft. Like a light tip-of-the-tongue on the back of the neck. A scent she smothers over her secrets, those tiny niches hidden beneath seams and silk. She’s not a girl so much as a youthful twenty-something with smooth thighs and big eyes and slender hands twisting a button on her white blouse. And she’s watching, too. Watching the man, his full mouth as it passes over the sugary rim of the cup, sip, lick of the lips, warmth slipping down his throat.

Between her thighs.


Call me Toni.

Dr. Antonia C. Cherry. Something pink, written in curls, like a porn star pseudonym—the character with the slim-line glasses and coiffed coil at the back of her neck and tight, calf-length skirt invariably pushed over her ass as she moans, screams, sucks, claws.

A stage name, at best. Dr. Cherry.

I tell my patients to call me Toni. Have a seat. Relax. And tell me all about this dream. Such psychoanalyst speak is so stereotypical and brash, yet this dream is worth hearing—a warm one, wet with innuendo and tasty innocence snatched. Tickled. Taken.

And they start out: Well, I’m on one of those trips—a red-eye flight from LaGuardia to LAX, coach class, sleeping bodies everywhere, upright and snoring, and I’m watching this guy. He is alone, absorbed, intellectual, without self-conscious anxiety or apprehension or anything like that. I see it all in pieces, random snapshots, a series of delicious photographs, body parts and breath.

Strong, steady hands slowly slipping.

Zipper falling, the metal teeth pulled apart, cotton and cock pushing through.

Pale buttons pulled, ripped from each hole.

Full lips parted.

The swell of my breast against his thick shaft.

Cool ceramic of a sink against my belly as he pushes me over.

Slipping beneath my skirt.

Whispers, the warmth of cinnamon breath against my legs, wishing I could have it all—this wet spot, smooth, to slip into, fuck, push himself in. Out.

And now I’m sitting here in a wet g-string with those dreams on my mind, rocking gently in my seat as the plane takes off, wondering what young mommy down the aisle would think if I pulled up my skirt and straddled the man with those nice, ironed pants and paper.

I release the snug seatbelt and stand, brushing past the girl and her perfect calves, past grandparents, golfers, bored pubescence, penny loafers and pinstripe boys—my own private, plane-faring audience. I near him. Running my fingers over the back of my skirt slowly as I pass, tightening the soft black material across the curve of my ass, I glance over my shoulder. The paper has dropped a little and I can see his lips part slightly. His dark eyes meet mine.

Sliding the bathroom door into its slot, I stare at the blue liquid in the bottom of the toilet, then up at myself in the mirror. Surrounded by stainless steel, the smell of cleanser thick, suffocating, I slip my fingers beneath my skirt. I move along the outside of my thong lightly, where it’s plump, moist to touch. Someone suddenly enters, forcing his way into the tiny room, tight against my ass.

I watch his eyes in our crowded reflection as they trace the curves, the small swells and valleys of my body. I continue to touch myself as he lifts my hair from my bare shoulder and tosses it to the side. He runs his ink-stained fingers down the side of my neck, leaving long black smears. I rock hard, harder, finding him, guiding him, as he sucks, bites my neck. It’s so tight, no air to breathe or moan. I bite on his thumb, fighting to contain these moans, screams, all the things I want to say. Lick me, fuck me, God I love your cock. We push against the walls, the toilet, our damp hands searching, grasping. I turn in our cramped space, his cock hard and glistening beneath the pale bathroom light. He picks me up by my hips, pushing me onto the sink, smothering his wet head deep into my swollen lips, thrusting his way in. Faster, harder, he buries himself deeper inside. We’re close, moving together, the sink slick beneath my ass.

“God, I love you Antonia,” he whispers. He stops. His face is close to mine, close enough to smell his musky after-shave, touch the light perspiration across his brow. “Shit, I’m sorry. I was really trying…”

I smile. “Happy anniversary, baby.” I grab his ass and pull him back inside. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

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To: Po Bashka

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 1K Bedtime Flash Contest
Honorable Mention